


It's a Wonderful Life (on the Path)

by Helgatwb, startabby



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dimension Travel, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helgatwb/pseuds/Helgatwb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/startabby/pseuds/startabby
Summary: ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride…” or so the saying goes. But when two men’s dearest wishes meet, the consequences which arise are beyond all expectation, teaching them of unexpected wonders which lay within a life lived out on the Path.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Renfri, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39
Collections: Every Fandom Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story by startabby, inspired by art from helgatwb  
> Written for the 2020 Every Fandom Reverse Bang (https://everyfandombangs.wordpress.com/)

### A Restless Night

Deep in the heart of the forest, the night was black as pitch. 

There, in that wild place, a quiet peace abounded. 

Indeed, what little could be heard were the sounds of the animals; those nocturnal enough to be active despite the darkness. 

Leaves rustled with the movement of small critters scrambling through the undergrowth. 

Sticks cracked, as larger ruminants such as the wandering herds of deer which made their homes in the forest, picked their way along the game trails that led between their various preferred pasturages. 

Off in the distance, an owl let out a hoot; no doubt passing along a message to its kin further out.

All was calm.

All, that was, except for the Witcher who lay in the clearing, desperately attempting to some sleep.

The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, rolled over in his bedroll, letting out a low huff. Despite the warm spring weather and calm night around his camp; once again he had found it impossible to rest.

That had been the case since the Path had led to the forest outside the little village of Blaviken some weeks previous. Instead, Geralt had found his mind troubled with that most burdensome of griefs; the one commonly known as regret.

For the travesty that had earned him the hated moniker of “the Butcher of Blaviken” was, perhaps, the one thing which he most regretted in all his long life.

Renfri the Shrike had deserved better than the fate which she had received; a lifetime of misery culminating in an ignoble death, a mercy killing at his unfortunate hands. But that was her fate, all the same.

And now, it seemed that his fate was to be tormented. To bear the consequences of regretted choice.

Geralt let out another huff. 

Then, giving up on any possibility of sleep that night, he sat upright. Casting aside the blanket which had covered him during his attempt at a nap, he instead shifted backward until he found a relatively comfortable position, leaning against a tree.

His tawny eyes gleamed heavily in the darkness as he settled in. 

If he was going to be awake, he might as well put himself into a position to keep watch. _Perhaps,_ he hoped without expectation of success, _the activities of the creatures around him would be enough to distract him from his thoughts._

If not, then at least he would be somewhat entertained. 

Pulling the coarse wool back over his legs, Geralt allowed himself to still. 

At first, an absolute silence reigned, but then, ever so slowly, the creatures of the forest resumed their nighttime routines. It seemed that they were unaware, or at least uncaring of the predator that sat within their midst. 

The Witcher who silently watched and rested… and longed so desperately for peace.

### A Bard’s Rage

“You cocksucking son of a syphilitic dog. May your bollocks fall off and may you drown in a pile of your own waste!”

As he was dragged down the steps of the Countess de Stael’s manor by a pair of overly-muscled men-at-arms, the esteemed Viscount Julian de Lettenhove – a man better known as the Bard Jaskier – screamed curses backward.

The target of his ire was the man who lurked in the shadowed doorway behind him, watching Jaskier’s removal from the manor with a proud smirk.

“Don’t waste your breath, Dandelion,” he said. “You’re just making a scene.”

As he spoke, the lurker, a loathsome toad named Valdo Marx, strode forward. Stepping between the guardsmen who still gripped the screaming bard, he casually dropped the load that he carried down before the brunette’s booted feet.

Despite the fact that it was secured at the top of the bundle, and thus cushioned, the elven lute that was Jaskier’s most prized possession moaned at the impact. 

Jaskier gasped.

Then, he lurched forward, elbowing the men who still held him loosely in their grasp. Sweeping up his most precious instrument in his arms, he ran a careful hand over its surface.

“Monster,” he snarled. “You don’t deserve the title of bard, you sycophantic twit. Treating such a beautiful treasure as if it were nothing more precious than a bag of rocks.”

Marx scoffed.

“That Eldar piece of junk is no treasure. It’s a waste of space, just like its owner. Elves and Witchers, pah, you’re a traitor to your race, Dandelion.”

“Stop calling me that,” Jaskier snarled.

“What, Dandelion?” Marx replied. “But it fits you so well. You are just a bit of fluff; a weed that has no purpose and ought to blow away with the wind. Just like your precious ‘White Wolf’.”

Jaskier lunged forward, intent on attacking his target.

But, in his anger, he had forgotten the armsmen that had dragged him out and were now bracketing his hated rival.

As he moved so did they, stepping between the pair of feuding bards and thus preventing a physical confrontation.

“The Countess has told you to leave, bard,” one said, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You’d best be on your way now.”

Recognizing that, in this case, a strategic withdrawal was all that he had left, Jaskier let out a frustrated breath. Then, reaching down, he collected his unexpectedly heavy pack from where it had been dropped so unceremoniously. 

For a moment, he was surprised that the other bard had neglected to comment about its weight. But then he remembered. Marx had never spent time on the road, not on his own anyway. No, that sycophant always traveled in luxury, cared for by the nobility which he made a practice of wooing. 

Unlike Jaskier. 

So, after shooting one final glare at the still smirking Valdo Marx, he slung the pack over his shoulder. Then he added to it, the strap that supported his beloved lute.

With feigned nonchalance, he began to walk away from the manor. As he did so, he reached back with one hand to bring the bridge of his lute up into a playing position. Then, with the other hand, he strummed a simple chord.

From the strangled yelp behind him, Jaskier knew that Marx recognized the start of the tune.

“It was the opening day of the festival…” he sang out, taking full advantage of the powerful projection capabilities that he had trained his lungs to provide. “…and the people had gathered around.”

“Shut. Up. Pankratz!”

Marx shrieked, but Jaskier ignored him. 

If he was going to surrender the playing field to that slimy weasel, he refused to do so without sending out one final volley.

The ballad which he had just begun to sing had originally been penned back at Oxenfurt when Valdo Marx had been nothing more than one of Jaskier’s academic rivals. 

It had been inspired by an event that had occurred during that year’s annual Harvest Festival. During the feast that closed out the festival, an arrogant Marx had gotten stumbling drunk on the year’s celebrated autumnal ale. Once he had done so, the pompous git had then proceeded to make a complete idiot of himself in front of everyone in attendance at the feast. That included the faculty, students, and even a bevy of visiting nobles there to enjoy the festivities.

Jaskier and his friends had, of course, found the whole affair absolutely hilarious. Seeing the man who was usually so controlled and uptight stumbling about, making slurred but inappropriate comments, and propositioning every woman who he encountered, regardless of their age, appearance, or status, had made their collective night. 

And being that they were bardic students, the group proceeded to take full advantage of Marx’s misstep. Working together, they turned the farcical actions of their hated colleague into a catchy ballad, which grew to become a popular drinking ditty amongst the entire city of Oxenfurt. From there, it spread far and wide. Now, it could often be heard in the inns and tap houses of Redania and beyond, its popularity helped along by Jaskier and the other traveling Bards as they made their way throughout the land.

The song had remained one of Jaskier’s favorites to this day, and not just because it mocked his rival. It was a catchy tune, fun to sing, and the perfect weapon to infuriate the bastard.

And so it was that with a grin on his face and a song on his lips, the Bard Jaskier strutted away from the Countess de Stael’s manor. 

From somewhere behind him he could hear Marx yelling, but the sound of the lute and Jaskier’s own voice drowned the man out.

At that moment, it made his loss to Marx just a bit more palatable.

Regardless of the circumstances of his departure, Julian Alfred Pankratz had once again managed to claim the last word.

It wasn’t until he made it far enough down the road that he was certain to be out of both view and ear-shot that he let the confidence in his voice and stride fade away.

“Damn that Valdo Marx,” he said, as he finally allowed himself to weep, “damn him to oblivion and beyond.”

Having endured a particularly exhausting stretch of time out on the road, Jaskier had been looking forward to a break. The Countess was fond of his music, along with certain of the bard’s other attributes, and was happy to have him dancing attendance around her. As such, Jaskier had just settled in for a long stay with his favorite patroness when HE had shown up. 

Valdo Marx’s arrival as a companion of the widowed Countess’ latest suitor had come as an unpleasant surprise. At first, he hadn’t been too worried. Jaskier could put up with a little bit of competition. It wasn’t like Marx could hold a candle to him, especially not musically.

But, of course, Marx knew that fact. So, instead of trying to compete with the other Bard, he turned to more underhanded schemes to eliminate his competition.

His strategy was to prey on the other bard’s weakness. 

Marx took advantage of Jaskier’s well-advertised fondness for Witchers and especially the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia.

“…and that flaming arsehole knew exactly what to say, too,” Jaskier cursed, remembering the other man’s jibe, “implying that respecting Witchers for their sacrifice was the same thing as being an Elven Sympathizer. Not exactly something that any of the local nobility can risk now is it, not even the Countess. She had no choice but to ‘kick me out’, for her own protection. Even for a carefree bard like myself; openly empathizing with the Eldar is a risky proposition.”

“Damn him,” he said, again, for emphasis, before seating himself on a fallen log that stood beside the road.

As he did so, Jaskier felt the weight of his pack shift as its base settled against the rough wooden surface. It reminded him of something curious. Just what had the Countess’ people managed to provide him?

“Now, let’s see what’s in here,” he murmured as he set his lute off to one side before swinging the heavy pack around to rest upon his lap.

Given the abruptness of his departure, Jaskier had not been able to collect his own belongings like he normally would before heading out on the road. 

It was the reason for his current outfit, all light colors and delicate fabrics. The colors and detail work looked quite fine when held against his pale complexion, brunette locks, and, if Jaskier did say so himself, his rather stunning blue eyes, but they were already beginning to look bedraggled in the dust and wind of the road.

“Trousers, chemise, doublet… another chemise, bedroll, half-filled notebook, thank goodness for that, a decent amount of travel rations, and… oh sweet Melitele’s tits!”

Tucked into the base of the pack lurked an astonishingly heavy pouch filled with coins. It was a startling amount for even a wealthy noble to offer a bard, let alone one who had been forced to depart early. 

“Countess! I knew that you didn’t want me to go!” Jaskier cried with glee.

The unexpected bounty made Jaskier feel a bit better about his unceremonious departure. 

Of course, it did nothing to ease his fury at Valdo Marx and the political reality that made his ploy so successful.

“Sometimes I almost wish that I could fight like a Witcher, if only so that I could defend Geralt and all the rest of them!” 

### Rumors

The dark and smoky atmosphere of the local tavern suited Geralt’s mood as he sat staring into a heavy tankard full of ale.

After yet another sleepless night, followed by a morning on the road, he had reached the town of Rinde around midday. 

Desperate as he was for something to distract him from his thoughts, he had immediately gone searching for news of something, anything, to Hunt.

But Fate, it seemed, was not on his side.

The town’s notice board was empty, the local Alderman had nothing to offer, and the market square, though filled with people, also failed to yield results.

Not only were there no rumors of a lurking monster, but there were no fights to be found. 

None of the local villagers were bold enough to attack the wandering warrior. Instead, all that Geralt received in response to his queries were glares and side-long looks. While they were the customary responses to a Witcher in these lands, a reality that Geralt normally appreciated, at that moment he wished for something more. A street brawl with some would-be bravo sounded wonderful. But no such luck. 

So, with his hopes for a distraction dashed once more, Geralt had stepped into the tavern at the market’s edge already in a foul mood.

 _At least,_ he thought as he claimed a seat in the corner, _the lack of threats means that I can fill my belly with something hot._

Geralt was just finishing his meal, a bowl of hearty soup, served with a small loaf of fresh bread, when his exhausted brooding was finally interrupted by a welcome distraction.

“It’s true,” a man exclaimed from his seat at a nearby table, “I heard the story straight from the source.”

“Nonsense,” his companion scoffed. “There’s no way that a djinn’s bottle could have been abandoned in the Pontar; not this far from the coast. There’s nothing that has happened recently that would indicate that sort of artifact, and besides, if it were true the Witch would have found it ages ago.”

“But… the tinker…” the other man protested.

“A tinker, you say? Well, that explains it. You know what their kind is like, always trying to stir up trouble. Almost as bad as one of the Elves, they are.”

“I suppose…” The original speaker acquiesced.

“Now then, what is the real news, how are things in the Capitol?”

As the two men beside him continued their conversation, Geralt’s mind began to whirl.

_Could it be?_

_A djinn?_

When he was still a trainee Witcher, Vesemir had warned Geralt and the others in his cohort of the dangers that came when one tried to negotiate with a djinn. How they were often found imprisoned within the depths of an enchanted bottle. How they offered wishes in exchange for their freedom from their prisons. And, how they would take even the most innocent of wish and turn it against the wisher. 

But despite his warnings, the old instructor did not deny the incredible strengths of a djinn’s power. Their powers were one of the few things that, Vesemir warned, could affect a Witcher in the same way as they did anyone else. And, in all honesty, by this point, Geralt was growing desperate. 

He wouldn’t survive for much longer, not without a generous helping of sleep.

Taking a final, large swallow, he finished off the bitter ale that he had been nursing. 

Then, he pushed back from the table with a grunt. 

He ignored the barkeep’s frown and the startled glances of the other customers as they caught a glimpse of his weapons, studded armor, and the reflective shine of his topaz eyes. Instead, he simply strode out of the darkened space and back out into the sunlight. The transition into brightness burned his eyes, doubly sensitive as they were between his Witcher’s sensitivity and lack of sleep. 

Nevertheless, Geralt hid his discomfort with the ease that came from decades of experience. Instead, he made his way efficiently through the town. After purchasing a simple rope net from a local merchant and reclaiming his horse from a shaking stableboy, he swung himself onto her back and headed for the rough-hewn gate that marked the main road into and out of Rinde. 

Since it was the middle of the day, the way was quiet as Geralt headed down the road, heading towards the spot where the road curved to follow the river Pontar. As he approached the riverbank, he could feel the wolf medallion around his neck begin to warm.

That feeling indicated that something with power lingered nearby. It fed Geralt’s hope that the rumors were true. If he could manage to free a djinn, then perhaps his misery would finally ease. If not, at least it would be a change. 

Geralt followed the pull of the medallion a league down the road, to where a small tributary jutted away from the main flow of the Pontar River. Once there, he climbed off the back of his horse, an experienced chestnut mare that the Witcher called Roach. Locating a promising site nearby, he used a fallen log to tie off the mare’s lead reins, leaving her with plenty of slack to graze in the heavy grass. 

From there Geralt set aside his weapons and armor, piling them beside the saddlebags that he had unloaded from the horse’s back. 

After fetching his recently purchased net from the pile, Geralt rolled up his sleeves, set aside his boots, and made his way into the reeds that lined the water’s edge. 

Tossing the net into the water, he began to fish.

### Wish Granted

Despite the unfortunate circumstances which had led to his early departure from the Countess de Stael's manor, Jaskier found himself in an unexpectedly good mood. It was a fine spring afternoon. The sun was shining. A light breeze blew. A cloudburst had recently dropped just enough water to keep down the dust of the road. 

So, instead of trudging along in misery, the Bard Jaskier found himself strolling happily through the quiet Redanian countryside. As he walked, he took the opportunity to practice with his lute, cheerfully drafting his latest masterpiece.

He was just getting to the part where the arrogant buffoon gets his comeuppance when he was distracted by the faint sounds of repeated splashing. There was someone nearby, someone who was doing something in the water.

His curiosity peaked; the bard simply could not help himself. Without a thought of the potential for risk, he cheerfully stepped off the road, following the sounds.

Before long, he spotted a familiar sight, one which made him smile in delight.

A chestnut mare, contentedly grazing on fresh grass that grew in the open meadow.

_Roach._

And Jaskier knew what that meant. His White Wolf loved that animal. So, if Roach was grazing here, then her master must be lurking somewhere nearby. 

When he spotted Geralt's armor and weapons, stacked against the log to which the mare was secured, Jaskier was even more thrilled. If Geralt had set aside those things, then he wasn't amid a Hunt. Instead, he was simply on the road, taking a break between jobs. 

_Geralt could be out collecting herbs for his potions, hunting food for his table, fetching firewood, or perhaps..._ and here Jaskier's grin practically split his face at the thought, _perhaps he was even bathing in the stream!_

After taking off his own pack and dropping it down beside Geralt's saddlebags, Jaskier lifted the strap of his instrument up and off his neck. Then, he carefully tucked his precious lute into the safest possible location; shielded on all sides from an accidental collision that might damage it. 

Once that important job was done, Jaskier prepared himself for his upcoming encounter with Geralt. Acting with thoughtful deliberation, he unlaced his doublet, leaving the ivory lace of his chemise and the pale column of his throat exposed to the environment.

Of course, he knew after two decades following Geralt that there was a slim chance that the Witcher would understand his intent, _but still,_ he thought, _a Bard could dream._

Sadly for Jaskier’s libido, when the pale locks of the Witcher came into view, they did not top a bathing man. 

Instead, it appeared that the Witcher was... fishing?

 _Huh. That is unexpected. What would drive the man to such an unusual act?_ Jaskier wondered. But then he dismissed the thought. _No matter,_ he decided. 

Stepping into a beam of sunlight, Jaskier struck up a provocative pose.

"Fancy running into you here, Geralt," he said cheerfully as he puffed out his chest and cocked his hips off to the side.

But the other man's only response was a grunt.

Instead of speaking, the Witcher cast out the net that he held once more. 

It hit the water with a splash, further wetting the already drenched black tunic that hung unlaced from the man's muscular frame.

Almost involuntarily, Jaskier licked his lips at the scrumptious sight.

Then he tried again.

"What in Melitele's name are you hoping to catch in this little stream?"

"Djinn."

"I'm sorry, I must have misheard, but did you just say that you were fishing for a djinn! Why in all of the gods’ names would you...?"

After all, even a humble Bard like Jaskier was aware of the hazards that came with an encounter with a djinn. Surely an experienced Witcher like Geralt would know better?

But then Jaskier took a closer look at his friend. 

Though he lacked the advantage of a Witcher's keen senses, even his merely human eyes could read the exhaustion that played across the other man's face, the deep-set bags under his eyes. And for someone with a Witcher's stamina to look that way, well, it took some doing. 

Jaskier had only seen Geralt with his energy drained to that level once before.

On that particularly memorable occasion, Geralt had just taken on an entire pack of alghouls, a lesser vampire, and a wraith; and then been forced to travel for some hours before managing to reach the inn where Jaskier had been staying, playing the entertainer. 

When the Witcher had arrived at the inn, the exhausted man had stumbled inside and flat out begged the innkeeper for a bath and a room. Fortunately, that woman was not one of those who refused to serve a ‘monster’. Instead, she agreed to allow him to stay and was even generous enough to offer one of her girls to help. 

It was at that point that Jaskier, who had caught sight of Geralt’s arrival from where he had been resting between sets, managed to intervene. After reassuring the innkeeper that Geralt was a friend, he volunteered to take her girl’s place in caring for the wounded man. 

It took a bit of work to clean up and bandage all Geralt’s injuries, but the task was one that Jaskier was happy to take on. Geralt had spent the entire time that Jaskier tended to him barely awake, and once he had been bandaged up, he had collapsed into a deep slumber. The poor Witcher was so tired that he slept for nearly two days straight, barely waking long enough to eat when Jaskier provided him with food. 

For Geralt to look that exhausted and still be on his feet, then the Bard knew that his Witcher must be truly desperate.

 _Well,_ Jaskier thought, _that would not do._

It appeared that it was up to him to keep his friend from making an exhaustion-borne mistake.

But then, before Jaskier could turn intent into action, the situation in which he had unexpectedly found himself suddenly changed. The net, which had previously been dragging easily along the stream bed, snagged.

As Geralt braced himself to pull the snag loose, Jaskier moved.

Rushing forward, he reached the other’s side just in time to watch a dirty bottle go flying up out of the water. It flew up in a graceful arc, making its way towards the bank. Meanwhile, the two men below it jostled for a catch.

Both men managed to get a hand placed in just the right spot, and as the bottle hit his palm, he made a silent wish. 

_I wish,_ Jaskier thought, _that Geralt’s burden be lifted from him and that I could make a difference in the fight against those who condemn the Witchers as nothing more than useful but vicious beasts._

Of course, what the Bard failed to realize was that at the same time as he had wished, so too did the Witcher at his side. 

_I wish,_ Geralt thought, _that this burden of duty and regret be lifted; and that I be permitted to help others without suffering such pain and grief in the fulfillment of my responsibilities._

And, despite their lack of vocalization, both men’s wishes were heard by the djinn, just as its bottle popped open from the impact.

 _Well,_ it thought as it pushed its way out of its prison in a burst of air, _this will be interesting._

And, with a murmur of thunder that somehow held the words ‘wish granted’ shuddering deep within their souls, both Jaskier and Geralt collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

### A Nobleman’s Morning

When consciousness finally returned, in those initial moments all that Geralt could feel was a sense of blissful relief.

Sleep, which had eluded him for so long, had finally been achieved. And not just sleep, either. No, somehow, remarkably, he had not only managed to attain a state of repose, but also one which lacked the horrible nightmares which usually disturbed his rest.

 _Just for a moment,_ he thought, _let me cherish this peace for just a moment._

Leaving his eyes closed, he allowed himself to luxuriate in the comfort of a soft mattress below and layers of warm covers atop his bed…

_Wait… bed?_

Last he recalled he had been on a riverbank, nowhere near human habitation.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open.

No one lurked within range of his vision. That meant that any watchers which he might have would not be able to tell that he was awake yet.

With that fact in mind, Geralt was able to fight the urge to move. Instead, he began to catalog everything that his various senses could tell him. And for a trained Witcher that usually was a lot.

As he’d already noticed, he was somewhere warm and comfortable, lying alone in a large bed. His eyes, given their current perspective, provided little information beyond the richness of the colors of the bed on which he lay. That, along with the textures that he could feel, indicated that the owner of this space was wealthy.

His nose picked up the scents of clean linens, soap, and perfumes, though all strangely muddled and hardly detectable, quite unlike what Geralt was accustomed to experiencing.

In the same way, he had to strain his ears to hear anything beyond the sound of his own breathing. There was nothing beyond the muffled sounds of distant speech. Still, it was enough to confirm that wherever he was, it was alone.

_Well._

Leaving himself no further time to dwell, Geralt surged upright, preparing himself to leap into action.

But that first movement was as far as he got.

Even that abbreviated motion was enough to make certain things clear. There was something… different… about his body. 

It was more than could be explained away by a simple, restful sleep.

No, it was far, far more than that. 

The aches and pains that were a natural consequence of a lifetime on the Path; residuals of injuries that even a Witcher’s enhanced healing could not fully remove, were gone. 

Instead, all that he could feel as he moved was the minor stiffness that only came after a long session in a bed.

Pushing aside the heavy covers under which he had lain, Geralt swung his feet onto the heavily carpeted floor, and pushing aside the massive draperies that surrounded the bed, stepped out into the room beyond.

As the thick brocade had indicated, the room where he found himself was richly and elegantly appointed.

At his feet, a thick layer of rugs covered a solid wooden floor, while gray stone walls were hidden behind an abundance of tapestries. A large wooden door hung in one wall, banded in blackened iron: with a large glass window opening directly opposite the door. In the space along the wall, an elegantly carved wardrobe and vanity stood.

It was the fine bedroom of a wealthy nobleman. 

_So, what in the name of all that was blessed was an old Witcher like him doing there?_

Despite his growing confusion, Geralt was still an experienced warrior. And that experience told him that when he found himself in unknown territory, reconnaissance was key.

With that in mind, he headed over to the window that he’d spotted during his perusal. 

_Given the way that the window’s casement sat inside the stone opening, he should be able to look out of it without being seen by anyone below._

To Geralt’s lack of surprise, his assumption was proved correct. 

However, when he looked out the window, what he saw only increased his sense of bewilderment.

Instead of the flat river lands of Redania where he had been traveling, the landscape that appeared before his eyes was far more vertical. 

It looked a bit like the mountain forest around Kaer Morhen, where he had grown up. 

There was one distinct difference from that remote location, however. Instead of a run-down keep, this castle sat in the center of what appeared to be a bustling town. The bright sunlight outside shone over a space filled with people, men, women, and children, moving about the spaces below without any signs of concern. 

Of course, the fact that his senses were acting up didn’t help. In the past, he would have been able to tell with one glance every detail of both the town and the landscape that stood around it. But now, all that he could make out from his vantage were vague impressions of stone cobbled streets, interspersed with homes and shops, surrounded by an impressive stone wall that marked the town boundary. 

Opening the window up a crack only gave him a brief chill followed by the vaguest hint of pine, a scent easily explained by the forest that he could tell lurked beyond the town wall.

_Yes, there was something wrong with him, something beyond the unexpected translocation. Being portaled across the continent by an unknown Sorcerer could explain the first, but nothing in his long experience could explain why his senses were acting the way that they were._

Giving up on the view, Geralt glanced towards the closed wardrobe and vanity that stood nearby. At the very least, their contents would tell him something about the person in whose bed he had awoken.

But before he could move, there was a sharp rap on the bedroom door, followed immediately by a ghost barging in.

Or someone that looked like one of Geralt’s ghosts, anyway.

Dressed in red and dark leather, the woman who barged into the room looked just like he remembered. It was as if she had stepped right out of his memories. 

Or, at least, at first, glance she did.

“Geralt!” the woman exclaimed, spying him standing frozen at the room’s window. “What are you still doing up here? You promised to join us for the hunt this morning!”

In contrast to the ghostly Renfri who haunted his dreams, bitter and vicious, the woman who stood before him was bright and cheerful, if a bit brash in her manners.

Geralt shook his head.

_What in Melitele’s blessed name was going on here? How was he supposed to respond to this latest upset?_

Fortunately for Geralt, it seemed that this cheerful version of Renfri, just like her memory counterpart, had no problem making decisions for him.

“Play silent if you want, Geralt,” she continued, “but I expect you to be downstairs in five minutes ready to ride. Don’t make me come back up here and beg, you brat.”

Then, without giving him a chance to respond, Renfri’s ghost spun on her heel and strode back out of the room, slamming the wooden door behind her. 

When he strained his ears, Geralt could just make out the sounds of her boot heels against the floor as she strode off down the hall.

 _Oh Renfri,_ Geralt thought, his shock tinged with regretful grief, _happy is a good look on you._

Shrugging off his shock, he decided that the best option was to play along. How else would he get answers to this conundrum?

Moving to the wardrobe that he had been just considering, he swung open the doors that held it closed and peered inside. As he had expected, a full complement of clothes filled the space. The garments inside the wardrobe were divided into two distinct flavors.

On the left side hung a collection of finery that would have had Geralt’s friend Jaskier cooing with pleasure. Satins, silks, and heavy brocades; along with delicate lace and beadwork, and everything drenched in bright and vibrant colors.

Thankfully for Geralt’s sanity, the clothes on the right were a much closer match to his own practical sensibilities. Trousers and tunics in sturdy broadcloth and a muted color palette; all sandwiched by leather outerwear. A pair of well-worn boots, leaning against the right wall of the cabinet would complete the look. 

There was even a small collection of weaponry tucked within the wardrobe’s depths. A brace of small silver and steel knives hung off a hook, clearly designed to be tucked neatly into a pair of forearm sheathes. A larger knife, one that could be strapped to his right-hand boot hung beside them. Finally, a hand-and-a-half sword, complete with scabbard and belt, rounded out the complement of armaments.

After laying out his selections on the bed, the next thing that Geralt did was to walk over to vanity. He needed a quick wash in the basin to clear away the residuals of a night’s sleep. 

But when he glanced into the mirror that sat on top, he received yet another shock. 

Looking into the high-quality glass, his reflection was almost unrecognizable when compared to what he was accustomed to seeing there. 

Instead of pale, messy locks and feral, inhuman orbs of burnished gold, the surface revealed glossy chestnut waves, and ordinary human irises a rich blue in color. 

Geralt looked like a courtier! But not just any courtier, one who, except for the noticeable cosmetic changes that came from a Witcher’s mutations, was still himself. For a moment, all that he could do was to stare at the strange view. 

But then, the distant sound of an armored boot tread walking through the corridor outside his room shook him out of his contemplation.

Grimacing in confusion, splashed water over his face and neck before stripping out of the loose nightclothes he had been wearing. After pulling on the clothing and weapons that he’d selected from the wardrobe, he pulled the top half of his unfamiliar hair back using a leather thong. The action was a comfortable touch of the commonplace, a welcome grounding before he braved the world outside.

Mentally bracing himself for more shocks, Geralt opened the door through which Renfri’s ghost had visited him.

The hall outside was unremarkable, a stretch of stone and wood with sconces providing enough light to navigate despite the lack of direct sunlight.

Following the dim sounds of voices that he could hear echoing through the corridors, Geralt made his way down the long hall and from there out into the main area of the castle.

As he walked, he passed several servants hard at work, each of whom offered a brief courtesy, a smile, and murmured “m’lord” when he or she saw him. 

The first time that had happened, Geralt had nearly stumbled. 

Where were the frown and acrid aroma of fear that usually followed his appearance?

But then he had remembered his current ‘look’. 

If this strange dream had truly cast him as a courtier, then there was no reason for a servant maid to fear him.

As he got further along, the same pattern held true with every individual that he passed. The servants, whether male or female, offered an abbreviated obeisance while the handful of on-duty guardsmen in their armor offered respectful nods.

It seemed that whoever had placed him here, had also made certain that those around him would react as if he had always been present. 

By the time that he reached the castle’s front entry, Geralt thought that he’d managed to acclimate himself to the situation.

Of course, he soon realized that his assumption was incorrect.

Geralt was standing in the entry staring out at a busy courtyard full of activity when an arm was slung over his shoulders from behind.

Startled, he made an abbreviated grab for his sword, getting it halfway out of the scabbard before he realized that the action was friendly, not a threat.

Instead, a grinning nobleman, dressed in fine hunting gear, had stepped up to his side.

“Geralt!” he said, “glad to see you up and about. You look surprisingly refreshed given last night’s fun. I was worried when her Grace went up to fetch you, thought you might not be up to going out. Guess that I was wrong.”

“And a good thing, too,” another man said, coming up on Geralt’s side. He was a match to the first, dressed in riding gear, but unlike the other, his hands were filled.

To Geralt’s eye, he looked vaguely familiar, like someone that he had seen once years before. Reaching out with one of his occupied hands, the second man offered up a large, filled pastry.

 _Food did sound wonderful,_ Geralt admitted to himself as he accepted the man’s offering. 

He hadn’t had much of an appetite recently, a side effect of his lack of sleep, and now his stomach was rumbling with desire.

Biting into the morsel, he let out a muffled groan. The pastry was hot and flaky, and filled with cooked beef and a delectably savory sauce. It was so much tastier than anything that he was used to eating.

Or perhaps it was the change in his senses, as a Witcher’s sensitive nose and tongue made even the mildest forms of spice uncomfortable to eat. 

As Geralt reveled in his enjoyment of the treat, the other men pulled him down the sparse handful of steps between the castle door and the courtyard below.

“We have found our wayward hunter, your Grace,” one called out.

The crowd of mounted riders that filled the space shifted to let them pass through their midst. Before long, Geralt found himself standing once again before another familiar face.

Unlike Renfri’s ghost, the sight of this companion brought him nothing but pleasure.

“Roach,” Geralt said with a smile, clicking his tongue.

The young groom that held the mare’s reins was forced to step up as the Witcher’s most reliable companion surged forward to greet her human.

“Hello you beautiful girl,” Geralt murmured as he rubbed her outstretched nose. “I’m glad to have you here with me on this strange adventure.”

“Oi, longshanks,” Renfri called, “now’s not the time to make love to your precious, we’ve got a hunt waiting.”

Unable to help himself, Geralt snorted in amusement. 

The unexpected sound made Roach toss her head a bit, but she calmed as her human claimed her reins from the groom and swung himself onto her back.

Quickly settling himself in Roach’s saddle, Geralt prepared himself to ride. Sure enough, no sooner had he finished, than Renfri announced.

“Gentlemen… Ladies… and other assorted individuals,” she called out to cheers and laughter. “Since our tardy companion is finally ready to go; it is time to ride!”

And, just like that, they headed off. 

Through the castle gates, down the cobbled streets, and past cheerful citizens going about their daily affairs, until the entire party had reached the main gate to the city.

Geralt, still uncertain about the situation that he had found himself thrust into, had naturally gravitated towards the back of the noisy pack. 

Soon, he found himself beside a couple of huntsmen, their coarser gear giving away their humbler status. All around them, a pack of hunting hounds gambled, clearly excited to be on the move.

“Good morrow, Lord Geralt,” one called, as he unhooked a flask from his belt. “You look like you could use a bit of the hair of the dog there, sir.”

Then, he tossed the flask in Geralt’s direction. Even though he was still adjusting to the change in his body, the Witcher was able to catch it with little difficulty.

Taking a swig, couldn’t help but cough.

“Strong, ain’t it,” the other huntsman said, as they all came to a halt. 

Up ahead, Geralt could see that Renfri and those at her side had stopped at the city gate to have a word with the guard captain on duty there.

“Quite,” Geralt agreed, taking a second swig, and then a third. 

He could feel the burn as the alcohol made its way down his throat, along with a feeling of warmth.

“Don’t drink it all,” the other teased, “you don’t want to be drunk while we’re on the hunt, m’Lord.”

 _Drunk, what an odd idea,_ Geralt thought. He’d never been drunk before. For a moment, he wondered what it felt like.

Nodding, he handed the flask to its owner, even as the warmth in his throat settled and expanded into the rest of his body.

 _How odd,_ Geralt thought, _is this how humans feel when they drink? Warm and relaxed?_

He could feel a slight lethargy, along with a relaxation of the tension in his back and shoulders.

_If it is, I don’t blame them._

He suppressed an urge to laugh, instead choosing to glance forward once again. 

Below him, Roach shuffled, feeling the change in her person’s seat.

It appeared that the conversation with the gate guards was complete, for the front-most riders had begun to move. Before long, the entire party was on its way, heading out into the forest beyond the city walls.

“Any idea what Her Grace has us hunting today,” one of the huntsmen asked the other as they left the gates in the dust.

Geralt perked up his ears. He had been wondering the same thing.

“Dunno exactly,” the huntsman admitted. “You know her Grace enjoys her rides, regardless of the choice of prey.”

“Suppose it reminds her of the old days,” the first huntsman commented. “Back before she reclaimed her birthright.”

“The good parts, anyway. No one needs reminding of what that bastard Stregobor,” both men spat at the name, “arranged to happen, with his manipulations. May Melitele bless that Witcher for his aid to our Princess, as she was then.”

“Aye.”

 _Stregobor._ That was another familiar name and one that Geralt hadn’t heard in some time.

But the mention of the master illusionist had Geralt wondering.

_Was this entire situation the work of a sorcerer? Am I lying unconscious somewhere, while some bastard mage messes with my skull? And if so, how can I tell the difference?_

Leaning back in his saddle, Geralt stretched out his memories, searching for answers.

### Rude Awakenings

Unlike Geralt’s unexpectedly relaxing morning, Jaskier’s first moments of consciousness after the wish were far less pleasant to endure. 

Instead of a slow awakening, he found himself startled out of slumber by the sound of a banging fist.

“Wake up, Witcher,” a voice called. “It’s time and past for you to be out.”

Jaskier suppressed a groan.

Keeping his eyes closed, he muttered, “why are they bothering you, Geralt?” 

Then, rather than bothering to rouse and investigate what was going on, he turned over and went back to sleep. He felt too exhausted to do anything else.

But of course, a moment later, something else happened to interrupt his sleep. 

This time, the awakening came with an even greater shock to his system. Instead of a harsh yell, the thing that pulled him out of slumber was the shock of an entire bucket of freezing cold water being dumped over his head.

“Wha!?!” Jaskier screamed as he sat bolt upright.

He had never, in all his travels, experienced such a rude wake-up call.

The burly man standing at the bed’s side appeared unapologetic. 

Hefting up the now empty wooden bucket in his hand, he growled.

“I warned ya, Witcher. My appreciation for the elimination of those Drowners only extends so far. It doesn’t extend to you lazing about and keeping my girls from their work.”

As Jaskier gaped at him, still struggling to process what in Melitele’s good name was going on, the stranger gave a brusque nod. Then, he turned to walk out of the room. 

As he reached the door, he turned and said, “you have two minutes to get dressed before I summon the guardsmen to get you out. And trust me, Witcher, you don’t want to get them involved. They’re far less generous than I am.”

Once the door was slammed shut behind the stranger, Jaskier relaxed back into a slump.

“Ow,” he said quietly. 

Every muscle that he had moved while vaulting upright in the bed ached. It felt like the aftermath of a night brawling, along with the aches of a particularly long day of trekking through the countryside. 

After shoving his drenched, and unexpectedly long, locks back from his face, Jaskier took a moment to scrub it with both hands.

_What was going on? Where was he? Why had the man called him a Witcher?_

But when he did so his hands caught on an unfamiliar and disturbingly thick layer of scruff that covered his jaw. 

It was yet another oddity; the last that he remembered he had been clean-shaven. That was how the Countess de Stael preferred her paramours, as she was not a fan of beard burn, and Jaskier was more than happy to comply. 

And yet here he sat, with a full beard in his hands.

As he sat there, Jaskier could hear the maids going about their business. Based on the sounds, it seemed that he had somehow been moved from his previous location at the river’s side and deposited into the dubious comfort of a room in a village inn. 

At a further distance, he could also hear pots and pans banging, a murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet and chair legs across the wooden floor, and much more. It was as if the walls around him weren’t even there.

 _How peculiar_ , he thought absently, even as he climbed out of the cold, wet bed.

After pulling off his drenched nightshirt, a rough homespun garment quite different from his usual wardrobe, he took a moment to wring it out before casting it down on the driest part of the bed.

Glancing over to the table and chair that were the room’s only other furnishings, Jaskier was greeted with yet another surprise. 

Instead of his comfortable but colorful traveling garments, the gear that had been tossed across the chair’s back looked like they belonged in Geralt’s bags. 

Worn tunic and trousers, both in dull colors, heavy boots and a studded jacket of stiff leather, and to top it off a veritable armory worth of weapons. There were probably a dozen different knives, meant to tuck into boots, belts, braces, everywhere. In fact, there was even a tiny one that, after a bit of thought, Jaskier realized was intended to be tucked into his hair!

The room was cold enough that Jaskier did not want to linger in his naked state, so, moving quickly and efficiently, he dressed in the strange garments. To his surprise, he found himself absently arming himself with various weaponry as he went. In less than a minute, he was squared away.

Grabbing the sword and saddlebags that were exposed by the movement of the gear, he dropped them onto the table just long enough to tuck the damp nightshirt that he had stripped off into an outer pocket of one bag. As he did so, Jaskier wrinkled his nose in disgust. From the way that the garment reeked, the water which had been so abruptly dumped over him must have come from a horse trough.

_Ugh._

And now that he had noticed that stench, he realized that there were several others which drew his attention. 

There was an uncomfortable reek of offal coating his armor, a scent familiar from the aftermath of Geralt’s hunts. From out of his saddlebags came sharp spikes of astringent odors; potions ingredients of some kind, he expected. 

_That would match with everything else,_ he thought. _Someone had set him up to look like a Witcher._

Or was it just a setup?

As he went to pick up the unfamiliar sword, Jaskier was struck by the sight of his hands. They were calloused and gnarled and covered in fine white lines, the scars of numerous fights. It was not their normal appearance. A Bard’s hands were one of his most important features, that and his voice, and as a result, Jaskier had always been careful to protect them from permanent damage.

These hands were the hands of a warrior, a man who lacked the luxury of being able to choose his battles.

Given the way that his body ached and pulled when he had dressed, Jaskier suspected that the rest of this body’s skin was similarly marked and scarred. But before he could work up the motivation to strip back down far enough check, his thoughts were disrupted by a soft scratching at the door.

“Master Witcher,” a female voice spoke quietly. It was one of the maids who had been working outside. “You’d better hurry up. Master Albert is getting impatient.”

Not wanting to risk a conflict in his confused state, Jaskier was quick to heed the warning. After collecting the sheathed sword, he swung the saddlebags over his shoulder and headed for the door. As he stepped out, the hovering maid offered him a shy smile. Then she nodded down the hall towards the stairwell.

Even as confused as he was, Jaskier couldn’t resist the urge to flirt a little. He offered her a seductive grin, bowing in appreciation for her kindness.

But instead of flirting back, the girl flinched at his appreciative look.

_What kind of curse was this?_

By now thoroughly confused and disturbed, Jaskier made his way down the stairs and out of the inn where he had apparently been staying. As he did so, he ignored the frowning innkeeper lurking behind the bar, along with the stares of the other patrons seated at the various tables scattered around the room.

When he stepped out the door and into the bright sunlight, Jaskier winced. 

It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but once they did Jaskier was startled. 

He could see everything. The fine dust that blew through the air, the grain of the wood on the lintel of the door across the way from the inn, even a rat, darting through a crack in a nearby gate.

Sadly, once again he had no time to appreciate the strangeness of his view. He was not alone. Instead, a stable hand was waiting for him as he stepped out onto the muddy street.

In his hands, he held the reins of a sturdy-looking dun mare, one who was already saddled and bridled and ready to depart.

 _Is that mine?_ Jaskier thought. 

_It must be, given the fact that her tack matches the saddlebags that I carry._

With a great deal of effort, Jaskier managed to keep his increasing confusion off his face. Instead, he simply swung the bags that he carried over the mare’s rump. Then, claiming the reins from the stable hand with a nod, he swung himself up onto her back.

As the stable hand offered him a small sack of what he could smell were provisions, Jaskier leaned back, nonplussed. 

After the earlier treatment that he’d received, Jaskier assumed that he must have already paid for the supplies. There was no way that the grumpy innkeeper would have provided them to him otherwise.

Still, his years on the road had taught Jaskier to accept even unexpected blessings with equanimity. So, he accepted the bag from the man with another nod and a wide smile. This time, there was no flinch, but that was probably because of the man’s personality. The older man looked to be too stoic to react in any way.

Internally, Jaskier shrugged. At least it wasn’t a hostile response.

After tying the offered bag to his saddle, Jaskier used the reins that he held to wheel his horse around.

Without a word, he headed for the town gate, one which he could see just down the way.

He needed a chance to regroup in private and figure out what the fuck was going on.

### Unconscious Bias

It had been three months since Geralt woke up in his new life, and he was surprised at how easy it had been to adapt to the change in his circumstances.

To his surprise, the hardest adjustment hadn’t been the loss of his enhanced Witcher senses. If anything, it had been a relief. He no longer had to worry about being overwhelmed by strong scents or spicy foods and it wasn’t like his strength was of great benefit if he wasn’t out on the Path.

No, what still tripped him up was the change in how people viewed him.

Geralt was used to being offered nothing but fear, hatred, and disdain, even amongst those who he had helped.

Witchers were monsters, people reasoned, useful at times but otherwise not to be trusted or treated kindly.

But in this life, Geralt was not a universally despised Witcher, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken.

Instead, he was Geralt Bialy Wilk, Viscount de Rivia, brave and noble cousin of the beloved Queen Renfri. As such, he had the reputation of being a handsome knight who made all the ladies swoon. That meant that he received an untold number of flirtatious glances as he went about his day. There were even those who were bolder in their amorous attentions.

The first time that one of the noble ladies invited him for a ‘private tea’ when he realized what they meant he had nearly passed out in shock.

Witchers rarely received such offers, and when they did there was usually an ulterior motive. Women and a few men who thought if they wooed the monster then he would kill or hurt someone in exchange for their favor.

It was the reason that most Witchers stuck to paid companionship. At least with a whore, the exchange was stated up front.

When he told Renfri about what had happened, the Queen of Creyden had laughed.

“Oh, Geralt,” she said with a chuckle, “you must know that your other self had quite the reputation of being a ladies man.”

For Renfri was the only one who knew the truth about Geralt’s current situation.

The truth had been revealed during that first hunt after he had been dropped into this strange new life.

At the time, Geralt had been convinced that the entire experience was an illusion placed by a powerful mage. From there he had drawn the natural assumption that the mage who held him captive was the bastard Stregobor.

Which meant that the Sorcerer must be playing the role of Renfri.

Determined to escape from Stregobor’s trap, Geralt had used the confusion of the hunt to separate them both from the rest of the group. Then, once they were far enough out of ear and eyeshot, he had turned on her, demanding, “drop this farce, Stregobor.”

But, to Geralt’s confused shock, ‘Renfri’ had failed to respond as he had expected. Instead of monologuing about how he had been deceived, which would have been the arrogant Sorcerer’s default, the Queen had led out a scoffing laugh.

“Stregobor,” she had said absently, “I haven’t heard that old reprobate’s name mentioned in years. Not since I dealt with my stepmother, his ally in plotting my misery.”

Nonplussed, Geralt had stared at her.

“Why would you bring up long-dead history, Geralt,” she had added before her eyes sharpened.

“Wait… how do you know that name? I didn’t meet you until after Julian helped me take him down.”

In a flash, she had drawn her twin swords from their scabbards and pointed them at him.

“Who are you, doppler?” she asked, her voice suddenly growing harsh.

Geralt flinched and shuddered.

For her to accuse him of being such, after he’d had to take down more than one of those bastards who had disguised themselves into the bodies of innocents, was a horror. 

“No, not a doppler,” Renfri continued. She had clearly read his body language and recognized his flinch as a negative, “but not my Geralt either. You’re far too wary, not to mention ready to fight.”

It seemed that she had noticed both his hand on his own sword pommel and the tenseness which he held in his frame.

Rolling one sword in her palm, she nudged her mount forward. As the tip of her sword approached his throat, Geralt froze.

If this was real, not an illusion, then he refused to risk harm to the woman that he had once loved and lost.

It seemed that Renfri had once again recognized the emotions which flickered across his face, for her own softened. Her sword tip dropped, and instead, she reached out a hand to stroke his cheek.

“Oh, Geralt,” she said, “what sorrows you bear.”

After a bit of discussion and Geralt’s recounting of the last things that he remembered, the pair managed to figure out two pieces of the puzzle. One, that Geralt’s current condition was likely the result of a wish; and two, that the wish had deposited his consciousness within the body of this Renfri’s cousin.

“It must have read your wish for peace as a desire to change your past,” Renfri had suggested. “The only question is, did you somehow change the entire course of your world’s history or did you simply trade places with my Geralt?”

Without access to the djinn, they would never know.

And so, with Renfri’s approval, Geralt had stepped into his other self’s life.

Besides the discomforting amorous encounters, the second hardest adjustment that Geralt found came from a vastly different type of human engagement.

Specifically, his interactions with the local children.

Though he would never admit it to anyone, Geralt had always had a soft spot for children. There was something about their innocent excitement and curiosity at his presence that offered a brief reprieve from the hatred that normally dominated a Witcher’s interactions with humanity. It rarely lasted long, as most parents would drag their children away rather than let them talk to the ‘Monster’.

But in this new life, the previously insurmountable obstacle had been removed. Instead, it seemed that his alternate was already a favorite of the children who thronged the castle and the town which surrounded its borders.

He could hardly go anywhere without ending up with multiple pairs of grubby hands tugging on his breeches, begging for something.

Sometimes, all that the child was looking for was a pat on the head.

But, more often than not, what they really wanted was for Geralt to spend time with them.

Soon, Geralt found himself training the older children in basic combat, riding, and other physical labors; just as Vesemir had done for himself and the other Witcher trainees in his youth.

But what quickly became his favorite pastime came when the younger children gathered around, clamoring for stories.

Geralt would tell them carefully abridged tales of his decades on the Path; of monster hunts and exotic locations that he had seen.

It was in those quiet moments that he found himself missing his friend Jaskier.

Undoubtedly the Bard would be much better at recounting their adventures together, with the addition of musical flair.

He wondered, in those moments, what Jaskier would think of this version of the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen.

### Facing the Path

Just as Jaskier’s awakening in this new world had not gone as smoothly as his beloved and now former Witcher so too did his adjustment to the change in circumstances.

Unlike Geralt, who found himself in a comfortable new existence, the bard’s alternate lived a far more perilous life. For the Witcher Julian of Lettenhove, otherwise known as the Monstrous Minstrel, spent his days wandering the extent of the Continent, destroying the dangerous creatures who threatened humanity.

To be fair, it wasn’t living on the Path itself that proved itself difficult for Jaskier to adapt to the experience.

The monster fighting was tough at first, especially as he adapted to the physical differences between his previous form and the new one. It left him with not a few new scars, ones which blended into the considerable collection that Julian’s body already owned. But as he grew more accustomed to his new Witcher strength and instincts and learned to let his body’s training take over when needed, Jaskier found himself returning from increasingly dangerous Hunts with nothing worse than a few minor cuts and bruises.

No, the biggest adjustment came in dealing with the human responses to his Witcher self.

It wasn’t the overt violence and profanity that the more aggressive attackers spewed in his direction. That kind of vitriol he could handle. After all, heckling was a normal part of the life of a wandering Bard.

Rather, it was the more subtle changes in how people interacted with him that were the hardest to endure. The sidelong looks, the quiet glares, the fearful grimaces, the way that parents carefully tucked themselves between Jaskier and their children; it all added up.

Of course, the change in his appearance didn’t help. Jaskier had been accustomed to using his good looks to get himself out of trouble, but now a smile was more likely to enrage than it was to soothe.

In contrast to Geralt’s strikingly pale locks and inhumanly tawny eyes, a telltale indication of his status as a Witcher, the color of Julian’s hair and eyes had been unchanged by the mutations. Sure, he now sported a scruffy beard and longer hair, along with a multitude of scars, but at first glance, he appeared to lack the physical indicators of his new existence that made the other Witcher so easy to spot.

It wasn’t until Jaskier took a closer look at his new visage that he realized the truth. His eyes, while blue, had the same inhuman pupils which gave a Witcher their powerful night vision. His hair, though unchanged in color, was now as thick and coarse as a bear’s pelt. Even his teeth had changed, taking on the same carnivorous power that he’d noticed in Geralt’s smile.

He was a fearsome and disturbing sight.

And, as the weeks and months went on, he understood more and more why Geralt preferred to spend most of his time alone in the wilderness.

Fortunately for Jaskier, it turned out that his alternate self had had his own version of a frequent traveling companion, one who dropped in and out of Julian’s life on the Path in much the way that Jaskier had done for Geralt.

Her name was Yennefer of Vengerburg, a beautiful and powerful Aretuza-trained Sorceress with the most exquisite amethyst orbs for eyes. Jaskier had met Yenn on that first day after he had found himself in this alternate version of Redania, scowling at his reflection in a peaceful stream.

Jaskier was staring at the changes to his face, his scruff, and his inhuman features, along with an assortment of interesting and disturbing scars. The main visible one was a puckered white stretch that snaked down one side of his face and poked through his scruff. His changed appearance had wiped away the final hope that had remained, that the morning’s horrible encounters had been the results of a bad night.

Somehow, someway, Jaskier had been transformed into a Witcher. He was just about to peel off his worn layers to look at the rest of his new features, including the scars which he knew must cover his body, when his newly sensitive ears caught a faint crackling sound from somewhere behind him.

Acting on instinct, Jaskier had spun around.

There, beside the willow, a portal had formed. A second later, a woman stepped through. Dressed in a sumptuous gown of rich, dark damask, her polished appearance was a direct contrast to Jaskier’s own disheveled state.

“There you are, Julian,” she had said as she emerged from the portal. “What are you doing out here by the river, I thought we were going to meet up in town?”

I beg your pardon, Jaskier had thought, a trifle hysterically.

“Excuse me?” he asked, his mind scrambling. It was clear to him that whoever this Sorceress was, she knew his alternate self.

“Focus, Witcher,” she had scolded, “or did the fight leave your brains addled? You asked me to join you on the road to Oxenfurt, something about my having better luck getting answers out of the Academics there than you would.”

“Right… Oxenfurt…” he had said.

The woman’s eyes had narrowed.

A moment later, he had been startled to feel her mind intruding upon his own.

“You’re not my Julian,” she had snarled – both in his head and with her voice.

Jaskier had slumped. “I am afraid, milady, that your beauteous form is an unfamiliar one. But rest assured that I mean you no harm. I am simply a humble Bard,” here he had offered her a fine courtly bow, “one who has found himself in the most unexpected of situations.”

“Hm,” the woman had said, skeptical. He could feel her rummaging around in his brain, apparently verifying his claim.

It had been a strange feeling, being able to sense the foreign presence. Jaskier had assumed that it must be due to his Witcher state, as he’d never been able to sense such mental intrusion in the past, though he knew for a fact that it had occurred.

“Well,” she had said after a moment, “isn’t that interesting. There seems to be some form of Wild Magic on you, one which placed you in the body of my Julian. But what I can’t tell is if it is a trade, or if your mind has somehow replaced his own.”

She had hummed, and then pulled out an amulet and tossed it to him.

“Here. Put this on. It will give me a semi-permanent link to your mind, even when we’re far apart.”

“What… Why…?” Jaskier had asked, confused.

“Well,” she had said, “for one, it will help me as I try to figure out what happened to my Julian. For another, that way I can give you advice all the time.”

Seeing that he was still confused, she had added. “You may not be my best friend, but you are wearing his body. He’ll want it back in good shape when I do manage to figure out how to switch you back. And if you are walking around, clueless as to his history or skills, well then that will be your downfall.”

Yennefer’s offer had proved to be genuine, and soon Jaskier found himself with a surprising new friend.

It turned out that his alternate self had first met the former Court Sorceress of Aedirn some years before. She had been fleeing from a Ronin Mage and Assassin out to slaughter the Queen and Princess of Lyria, both of whom had been under her protection.

The man had managed to murder the Queen right before Yennefer’s portal dropped both the desperate sorceress and the infant princess right into Julian’s lap.

Always willing to step in to protect the innocent, Julian had willingly helped Yennefer protect the child, slaughtering the mage before his massive scorpion construct could harm them.

Initially, Yennefer had simply thanked Julian for his help and left, assuming, or so she told Jaskier, that she would never see him again.

But Fate, it seemed, had other plans for the pair.

The Sorceress and the Witcher had found themselves running into each other again and again, and before long their similar sense of humor and outlook on humanity had allowed a friendship to develop.

In much the same way, Jaskier soon found himself drawn to the Sorceress. Like his Witcher counterpart, he found in her a kindred spirit. She had been the one to support him as he struggled through his change in lifestyle, comforting him as he complained about those he had left behind. She had even managed to weasel out of him the truth about his hopeless love for the Witcher Geralt, and how it had been that love that had - at least in part - landed him in this situation.

Despite growing accustomed to the realities of life on the Path, he still longed to return to his old life.

In particular, the fact that he could no longer share his music had been a rough potion to swallow.

Sure, he could still create songs.

He could even practice them with the lute that Yenn had found for him.

But without an interested audience to listen and enjoy them, what good were they?

And so, just as he had three months before, Jaskier found himself once again at the riverside.

This time, instead of staring at his reflection, he was seated on the log of a fallen tree, his horse Pegasus grazing nearby.

Yenn’s gifted lute was in his hands, and he strummed it absently as he sang under his breath.

_Toss a Coin for your Witcher,_

_Oh, Valley of Plenty!_

_Oh, Valley of Plenty!_

_Toss a Coin for your Witcher,_

_A friend of Humanity!_

The tune was nostalgic, if a little self-serving these days, given his current state.

Somehow, singing about his own adventures instead of Geralt’s just wasn’t the same.

Thankfully, Jaskier’s melancholy was interrupted by the hum of a portal opening nearby.

“Yennefer,” he said with a smile as he glanced up.

“Jaskier,” she replied.

Using his bardic name was an easy way for the Sorceress to distinguish between him and his alternate self, something that he appreciated.

“I believe that I have found something of interest.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a rumor of a monster troubling the villages up North. Mighty winds, destruction, and men and women troubled with peculiar ailments. It sounds like a djinn. Interested?”

“Definitely.”

### The Storyteller

“The kikimora seized the Witcher’s boot with one claw, pulling him into the water. In response, his adversary raised his own silver sword, ready to strike. As the struggling pair disappeared into the murky depths of the lake, the Witcher’s weapon managed to catch one final ray of light, sending out a flash.”

From their seats around and on him, Geralt’s audience let out a gasp.

“Despite the mighty fight happening below its surface, back up on the bank, everything began to calm. The previously roiling water smoothed out. Leaves rustled at a passing breeze. Somewhere out in the forest, a bird chirped.”

“Just when it seemed that all was lost, and the Witcher had perished, the tip of a sword came up from below, piercing the water’s surface. It was quickly followed by its bearer, bleeding and gasping for breath, but mercifully still in one piece.”

Geralt smiled, even as the children who had gathered around him cheered.

“Geralt,” said one tiny little girl who was cuddled in his lap, “how do you know so much about Witchers? Have you ever met one?”

“Yeah!” a slightly older boy shrieked. “Can we meet one too? Are they really as awesome as in your stories?”

“And more,” Renfri’s voice sounded from somewhere behind him.

Unlike the children, Geralt failed to jump. Even with his changed senses, he had already known that she was there. One couldn’t change the habits of decades in a few months. Besides, the former Witcher’s keen situational awareness had been drilled into him in childhood. It had kept him safe for all those years on the Path. He saw no reason to give it up, even if it was far less necessary in the Creyden Court.

Geralt smiled at his friend, appreciating the kindness inherent in her remark.

He knew that her comment about the goodness of Witchers was not simply a compliment for him.

After all, he had heard the full story of this alternate Renfri’s life, including the fact that she had encountered a vastly different Witcher in Blaviken, a man of the Griffon school who bore the name Julian.

Renfri had told him of how that Witcher had made a different call than the one that Geralt himself had done and instead chosen to help the Shrike take her vengeance on those who had wronged her.

While he had struggled at first at the idea of a Witcher interfering in human affairs, Geralt had to admit that he was jealous of this unfamiliar individual. Julian must not be tormented by regret the way that Geralt himself had been.

“Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head.

The nod was all that he could manage without disrupting the warm bodies sprawled over him.

Unsurprisingly, many of the children choose to echo him, the older ones jumping up and bowing properly while the littler ones mimicked their words and movements.

“Sit, sit,” she replied. “I will need to steal your playmate here in just a moment, but not until he has a chance to finish his story.”

Dropping into her own seat on the furs beside him, Renfri smirked.

“And besides, I want to know what happened to the brave Witcher, too.”

The children cheered.

“Right, then,” Geralt cleared his throat, “where were we.” He let his voice drop back into the rhythmic cadence that he used in this situation, a habit that he’d picked up from listening to his Bard.

“Ah, yes. The Witcher emerged from the lake, slowly wading towards the nearest bank as a flood of water drained from his clothes and body. In one hand, he still held his sword, while in the other he dragged the still twitching body of the kikimora. When he reached the shore, he pulled it all the way up and out of the water before collapsing beside it, exhausted by the fight. Just for a moment, all that he could do was lay there and breathe.”

“It wasn’t long, however, before his rest was interrupted by a shadow that fell over his upturned face, blocking the warm sun. Would anyone like to guess who was there?”

The children began to shout. Many called out the names of various monsters, while others guessed figures from one of the other stories which Geralt had told them.

In the end, it wasn’t one of the older children who figured it out. No, that honor went to the same small child who had asked him about meeting Witchers earlier.

She had reached up from her place in his lap to tug on his hair. When he leaned down, she whispered, “was it Roach?”

Geralt smiled and nodded. Then he raised his voice to be heard above the clamor.

“Fiona got it right,” he said, gesturing down, “when the Witcher opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of his faithful mount, who had broken loose from where she had been tied and made her way over to his side. Leaning down, she butted his head lightly with her nose, as if checking to see if he was alright.”

“The Witcher was grateful for her arrival, for she carried on her back the supplies that he so desperately needed to heal the fearsome wounds that he had sustained during the fight. ‘Come on, Roach,’ the Witcher whispered, ‘Help me out.’”

“And, with a whinny, Roach did. Turning her side towards him, Roach allowed the Witcher to use her saddle to pull himself up onto his feet. From there, a set of potions gave him the necessary strength, and before long, he was headed back to the village to claim his well-earned reward.”

Geralt let the story end there, as he often did when recounting the tales of his adventures.

The children didn’t need to know what happened when he had arrived to claim the bounty on the kikimora.

In the time between when he had originally accepted the job and when he returned with the monster’s corpse, a group of roving mercenaries had torn through the town, doing considerable damage.

Inevitably, the local alderman had paid them off using the very same bounty that he had promised Geralt, leaving the ‘monstrous’ Witcher with no payment for his work.

It had only been through the mercy of the local innkeeper that he had had a hot meal and a roof over his head for the night to recover from his rather substantial injuries.

Instead, he used the excuse of Renfri’s arrival to bring an end to storytime, lifting the little ones up and off his lap with an exaggerated groan and handing them off to their hovering caretakers.

“Now, then, children, it seems that our gracious Queen,” he offered Renfri a bow, to which she nodded in return as she climbed to her feet, “has need of me.”

Taking the hand that Renfri offered, Geralt heaved himself up off the floor, dislodging the young folks that still leaned against his sides as he did so.

As Renfri headed out of the hall, Geralt followed his greatest regret, now turned into his best friend in this strange place, towards her study. Whatever she had to tell him; he knew that it would be interesting to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

### Familiar Strangers

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Yennefer groaned as she pushed aside a heavy pine branch. “I’m damp, cold, tired, and all there is to look at around here is your ugly mug.”

For his place behind her, Jaskier snagged the same branch before it could swing back and smack him in the head.

“As if,” he said gruffly, “this whole thing was your idea, remember? I was doing fine on the Path, but no, you were bored and decided that you wanted an adventure.”

To be fair, Jaskier knew very well that Yenn’s reasons for taking him on this wild djinn hunt really were quite noble. She was trying to help a friend, restore him to his proper form. And not just one. Despite their unexpected friendship, Jaskier knew that Yennefer missed and worried for her own Julian, the Witcher whose body he occupied.

Was he gone, buried within my subconscious, or perhaps… back in my original world, living the life of a wandering Bard? If that is the case, I would bet on my lute that he is enjoying himself.

But the knowledge of her generosity didn’t keep him from having fun snarking at her, especially when she was like this.

As if she had heard his thoughts; which, now that he thought about it, wasn’t impossible; Yenn glanced back just long enough to glare.

Then she huffed.

“Fine,” she agreed, “yes. This whole thing was my idea. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be unhappy about the lack of creature comforts.”

Reaching up, she pulled the fur collar of her coat higher. At the same time, she made a small gesture with one finger.

The branches above Jaskier’s head shook, dropping their load of wet snow down onto his head.

“Yenn!” Jaskier shrieked, as he shook his whole body in a futile effort to dislodge the mess before it could seep into his own furs and further dampen them.

In response, Yenn just laughed.

“Oh, Dandelion,” she replied in a sing-song voice, “you look like a dog. I thought you were a Griffin; shouldn’t you be puffing up like a bird?”

“Why you…”

Those were fighting words. Bending down, Jaskier scooped up a large handful of snow from a nearby drift and let it fly.

This time, it was Yenn’s turn to shriek.

Before long, their hike had devolved into a snowball fight, as Witcher and Sorceress resorted to escalating techniques to take their opponent down.

Jaskier had just managed an _igni_ strong enough to melt the person-sized snowdrift that Yenn had launched at him when their antics were interrupted by a slow clap.

“Julian,” an unfamiliar voice called, “you bastard. What are you doing up here in my lands?”

Spinning around, Jaskier quickly spotted a pair of riders on horseback, emerging from the forest trail on the far side of the clearing from where he stood.

The lead rider, and the one who had spoken, was an attractive but tough-looking woman; one who apparently knew his Witcher counterpart.

Both she and the man who followed were dressed for a hunt, in finely tooled leather and weaponry that hinted at the possession of a great deal of wealth.

Behind him, Yennefer emerged from behind the tree that she had been using to protect herself from Jaskier’s expertly thrown missiles and stepped up to his side. Her hands were outstretched and ready for battle. For himself, Jaskier reached down and loosened his sword from the scabbard at his side with an audible snick.

But, when Jaskier got a closer look at the woman’s face, his tense posture relaxed.

Her words weren’t a threat.

No, it seemed that Yennefer of Vengerburg wasn’t his counterpart’s only fierce female friend.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, offering the woman a courtly bow, “but I am afraid that my companion and I were unaware that we had trespassed.”

“Nonsense, Julian,” the woman replied. “You know very well that I expect you to come for a visit whenever the Path brings you close to Creyden.”

Both she and her companion came closer. As they did so, Jaskier found his eyes drawn towards the man, who had yet to say a word. There was something… familiar… about both him and his mount.

It seemed that the other shared Jaskier’s fascination, for he quickly realized that the man was doing his own assessment of his armored form.

A moment later, their eyes met, brilliant blue and inhuman meeting ordinary hazel, before both sets of orbs widened in recognition.

“Jaskier!?!”

“Geralt?!?”

They spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping.

Jaskier stepped forward, placing his hand on the reins of the horse – Roach! – as the other swung himself off her back to stand directly in front of him.

Even though Geralt had exchanged the translucent locks and feral gaze of a Witcher for a normal human appearance, he still carried himself the same. The tightly wound prowl borne from decades on the Path. At that moment, Jaskier knew that, despite the physical change, this was HIS Geralt.

But before he could get verbal confirmation from the other man, their stare-down was interrupted by an unexpected comment.

“What do you think? Are they looking to fight or fuck?” the strange woman said, apparently to Yenn, though her voice was clearly pitched to carry.

Jaskier snorted.

Yennefer snickered.

And Geralt; well, he shot his companion a glare.

“I take it then, that despite your appearance, you are not MY Julian,” the woman stated more than asked.

“I am afraid not, my lady,” Jaskier said, tearing his eyes away from the strange but welcome sight of a human Geralt. “I am merely a humble traveling Bard, one who has found himself unexpectedly dropped into your friend’s life.” He offered her a flirtatious wink, along with a proper courtly bow, “and I go by the stage name of Jaskier if you please.”

“Oh, I think I like this one, Ger,” the woman said. “He’s got even more of a silver tongue than Julian does.”

“He does, doesn’t he,” Yennefer commented. Realizing that the new arrivals offered her no threat, she had relaxed her posture and fallen into one of her more casual, sensual poses. “Now then,” she added, “Creyden, you said. That means... you must be Queen Renfri, the Black Sun Princess who took out that bastard Stregobor.”

The woman, Queen Renfri apparently, nodded. She gave Yennefer’s curvaceous form an appreciative once over, before making her own comment. “And with those beautiful eyes,” she said, “you must Yennefer, the infamous Sorceress of Vengerburg.”

With introductions out of the way, the four quickly fell into conversation.

It turned out that Geralt and Renfri were in the woods for the same reason as Jaskier and Yennefer, tracking down rumors of a djinn in the hope that it might give them answers about Geralt’s situation.

Both women were worried about the friends whose minds had been either removed or suppressed, as well as the new friends that had taken their places.

“Between your sorcery, my immunity to mystical attacks, and the boys’ fighting prowess, we should be able to get some answers even out of a powerful being like a djinn,” Renfri commented as the quartet wrapped up their conversation and prepared to move out.

“I quite agree,” Yennefer replied. “That djinn cannot be allowed to run amok.”

Since Yennefer and Jaskier were on foot, the other two chose to walk as well, leading their horses behind them as they left the clearing and continued along the forest trail.

As they set out, the men let their companions take the lead, as between Renfri’s knowledge of the area and Yennefer’s magic they knew where they were going. It quickly became a competition, as two beautiful and powerful women did their best to one-up each other, showing off their skills in an overt display of flirting.

Meanwhile, Jaskier and Geralt were content to let the others charge forward, slowing their pace until the women’s playful bickering began to fade into the background.

“So…” Jaskier began before Geralt interrupted.

“I am so sorry,” he said abruptly, “this is all my fault.”

“Nonsense, Geralt, you didn’t wish for me to be a Witcher, did you?”

“No.”

“But if I hadn’t gone fishing for…”

“Nonsense, as a Witcher you know very well that a djinn does what it wants and will find its way into unsuspecting hands. Besides, I am quite certain that this transformation is not the result of a single wish.”

Geralt sighed, but he still nodded in agreement.

Jaskier knew that the other man wouldn’t let go of his guilt quite that easily, but he figured that at least it was a start.

“Besides,” he went on, I have discovered that there are certain… perks that come with a Witcher’s mutations.”

He flashed Geralt a lascivious smirk.

“Tell me, darling,” he said, “have you noticed a change in the responsiveness of your….” He glanced down towards Geralt’s waist, “package?”

Geralt flushed, making Jaskier laugh.

It was good to have his friend back again.

And the change in their forms made him so much easier to both read and fluster, too.

This was going to be fun.

### Common Ground

By the time that the quartet reached the point where the djinn was believed to be lurking, a new balance had been found between them.

Despite being relative strangers, Renfri and Jaskier’s Sorceress friend Yennefer had managed to find numerous points of commonality. Both were strong women who had been badly hurt by men in the past, but with the help of Jaskier’s Witcher counterpart, had managed to come out the other side stronger than ever.

From those first few moments, after they had met, Geralt had been certain that his friend and Jaskier’s would either be the best of friends or the bitterest of rivals and, at least so far, the former had proven true. The fact that their interests, in this case, were aligned had simply made things easier.

For Geralt and Jaskier, on the other hand, the change in their relationship had proven a bit trickier to manage.

Geralt was used to being the strong one, but now he was the weakest of them all.

Still, he was impressed by the way that Jaskier had managed to step up and take up the calling of a Witcher.

From the stories that Yennefer told, as well as a thankfully brief encounter with a lurking Rusalka when they stopped to refill their water bags, it seemed that he had adapted to life on the Path with a surprising amount of skill.

Indeed, it put paid to many of the assumptions that Geralt had made over the years about his colorful friend.

If Jaskier was this capable, then he hadn’t been following Geralt around just for the protection on the dangerous road. Instead, it seemed that he genuinely wanted to travel with him.

The thought warmed Geralt’s heart.

“Tell me, your Grace,” Jaskier was asking from his spot walking beside Renfri, “without his lifestyle as an excuse is our friend Geralt still prone to avoiding speech?”

“Perhaps at first,” was Renfri’s sly reply, “but eventually he managed to loosen his tongue.”

“And how did you manage that?”

“Oh, it wasn’t me,” the woman replied. Geralt felt a chill down his spine. “No, it was a very different young lady who managed that achievement.”

“Really!?”

“Yes, indeed.”

If he were more prone to dramatics, Geralt would have banged his head against a nearby tree. Instead, he simply grunted as both Jaskier and Renfri turned to beam at him.

Renfri continued her story. “It was right in the middle of lunch, a few nights after he found himself in my court. Geralt had just filled his trencher and mug, when, out of nowhere, a pair of slim hands dropped something in his lap.”

The excitement in Jaskier’s voice was palpable as he asked, nearly breathlessly, “what was it?”

Geralt felt the need to butt in before Renfri could work Jaskier up into a frenzy.

“Calm yourself, bard,” he said. “It was merely a babe.”

Even as he gasped dramatically, Jaskier couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Of course, your greatest weakness!” he cried.

“You should have seen his face when the village children would wave at the visiting Witcher,” he whispered loudly to Renfri. “He might deny it, but he secretly loved the attention.”

“Well, as one of my Court he has not had to deny himself anything,” Renfri went on. “In fact, that babe was just the start. The children of Creyden absolutely love him, and he loves them right back.”

Jaskier was practically beaming.

“The women, on the other hand,” Jaskier’s smile took on a brittle edge, “those proved less appealing for our Geralt. Unlike his counterpart, he has yet to partake of those charms, even when the women were practically throwing themselves at him.”

“Well, no wonder,” Jaskier said. He looked relieved. “Romance is not our Geralt’s forte, and I cannot imagine that changing, even with the change in form.”

“Now you, on the other hand, your Grace, appear to be well equipped at the art of seduction.”

He offered her a flirtatious grin.

In response, she simply looked him up and down.

“I am afraid, my dear Witcher, that even if you were not in the body of my brother in all but blood, that my tastes run to a very different sort of beauty.”

Very deliberately, the Shrike turned her gaze towards Yennefer, who was currently up ahead riding Renfri’s stallion, trying to spot magical scars of the djinn’s passing in the trees around them.

Jaskier cleared his throat.

“Ahm, well, in that case….” He let his voice trail off for just a moment. “I can tell you that my good friend Yennefer is not only an equal opportunity appreciator of beauty, much like myself, but that she is, at present, without romantic entanglement.”

Then he added, his smile taking on a hint of teeth. “But, just to be clear, should you succeed in your suit I expect you to treat her right.”

“Of course,” Renfri agreed, showing her own teeth. “As long as you do the same for my own dear friend.”

This time, both Jaskier and Geralt choked.

She couldn’t possibly, Geralt thought with a sputter, Jaskier never even glanced at me that way!

But he couldn’t help the absent thought.

Even if I wish that he would.

Thankfully, the conversation was interrupted at that point by the Sorceress’ call.

“Look at this!” She said, gesturing towards the path ahead, where a massive swathe of downed vegetation gave clear evidence of the djinn’s presence.

“Still green and plump with life,” Jaskier commented as he touched a leaf that hung off one of the downed branches, “it must have passed through recently.”

And Geralt had to agree. They had found the trail. But what would be waiting for them when they reached the end of it.

A monster that must be defeated, or perhaps, just maybe, finally some answers.

### The Djinn

 _So, we’ve managed to find the djinn, now what?_ Jaskier couldn’t help but think as he stared up at the downed bushes.

Nothing that he’d read during his years at Oxenfurt had prepared him to deal with a djinn that was already loose. And from the looks on his companions’ faces, they were at a similar loss.

The only thing that came to mind was a reference that he’d read in a book of epic poetry, one which mentioned a djinn’s fondness for bargains. It was how they’d been lured into their bottles in the days before the Cataclysm, or so the legend went.

_But what could they offer a being of such immense power and inhuman desires?_

As his mutation-enhanced hearing began to pick up an increase in the sounds of the wind rushing through the leaves and branches of the forest, Jaskier’s mind went into overdrive. There must be an answer there, somewhere.

The sounds of the djinn’s approach grew stronger and stronger until it was clearly audible to even the most human of the party. Jaskier’s head whipped back and forth, trying to spot the swirl of leaves, downed branches, and other assorted debris that would be the only visual reference possible in this forest environment.

When the djinn finally made their appearance, it was unmistakable. A massive swirling mess that dropped down to block their path forward.

Its wind howled, dirt and small objects pelted their faces and clothes, and Roach and Renfri’s mount both reared.

“What do you want? What can we do to satisfy you, great and powerful djinn!?”

Despite his sensitive hearing, Jaskier could just barely hear Yennefer’s words over the ruckus.

But it appeared that the Sorceress’ facility at mental magics served her well in this situation.

All that the human turned Witcher had heard was an increase in the howl of the winds, before it died down, but she was smiling as if she had won a victory.

“Now then,” she said, a tad smugly. “I do believe that we might have an agreement, O Immortal One.”

The whirlwind hummed once more, pulling itself into a more compact, nearly solid form.

At the same time, the violet-eyed Sorceress turned toward her companions.

“We have struck a vein of unexpected luck, my friends,” she said with a grin. “It seems that this wondrous being is indeed the source of your peculiar situation, and further, that they are in a sharing mood.”

“Really?”

Jaskier was surprised. That didn’t sound like any of the tales that he’d heard before.

From the tone of Geralt’s grunt, it seemed that he agreed.

But Yenn seemed sure.

“Quite,” she said. “It seems that in creating your new situation the ifrit was only able to use up two of the three wishes owed, leaving it indebted to you both. While three months is not that long for an immortal being, still, it tires of carrying the burden that comes from such a debt.”

“Besides,” she added, her grin turning a bit impish, “it seems that your reactions to the change have been most entertaining for it to watch.”

Geralt only sighed, but Jaskier couldn’t help his grin. That he had managed to entertain an immortal being for such an extended period was quite an accomplishment, one that he would happily crow over later. Still, there was still the open question of what exactly the djinn had done to fulfill their wish.

 _Had the being wiped away their entire history, replacing it with this new world? Did they somehow switch places with the Geralt and Julian of this world? Or…_ and here his mind stuttered a bit at the horrifying thought… _was this all an illusion? A hallucination brought on by the djinn’s power?_

He didn’t know why the last bothered him so much.

Perhaps it was the thought that all the good that he’d done as a Witcher, the battles that he’d fought, the suffering that he’d undergone, the friends that he’d made, all of it meaning nothing?

Fortunately for Jaskier, Renfri managed to ask the question that he’d been afraid to.

“And what, exactly, did this wish-granting do?” She said, a bit gruffly.

Even though he couldn’t hear the djinn’s words, Jaskier could read the smugness that emanated from the swirling collection of dust and debris.

Yenn’s smile widened, as she passed along the other’s words. “The Great One,” she said, “took advantage of a tiny fracture in the framework of the universe, to cast both itself and the pair of you through to another version of the world, one where Julian was the Witcher and Geralt the noble lordling.” She hesitated, as if listening, and then continued. “Not your bodies, obviously, just your minds and souls. Once through the barrier, it was the work of a moment for it to lay your consciousnesses over top of your alternates, suppressing them down into a suspended state deep within your minds.”

“A tricky bit of mental manipulation, that must have been,” her voice sounded admiring, “to layer consciousnesses in the same minds without doing damage to either the original inhabitants or the new arrivals.”

“So then,” Geralt said, “the other me, he’s still in here… somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“And I can give him back to Renfri?”

“Yes.”

 _That would be Geralt’s first consideration,_ Jaskier couldn’t help but think, _whether the harm that his actions might have done could be undone._

“But then,” Jaskier asked, “what happens to us? The visiting us?”

He gestured loosely at both Geralt and himself.

“Well,” Yenn said, her voice taking a turn for the sorrowful. “I am afraid that is a bit of bad news. The Mighty One is quite certain that they can, and indeed must, return to your original universe, sealing the crack that they used to cross universes behind them. However, in gratitude for the entertainment, and to complete their outstanding promise of a third wish, they are offering you both one final choice. Either you may remain here, your minds and memories merging with your alternates and thus truly becoming the human Geralt and Witcher Julian of this universe. Or you can return to your original bodies and lives, once more taking up the roles of the infamous White Wolf and his enthusiastic Barker.”

“If you choose the former option, and remain here with us, upon their return to the other universe the Gracious One promises to dispose of the cast aside husks of your former selves in a manner suitable for beings of your worth. Should you choose to return, on the other hand, it will be as if no time had passed; all that will remain would be the memories of living in another’s shoes.”

When Yennefer finished speaking, she exchanged a glance with Geralt’s Renfri. The women then collected the reins of the nervous mounts and stepped away, moving just far enough to be out of human earshot. As she did so, Yennefer sent Jaskier a mental message.

_We’ll give you both a moment alone to discuss things before you make your decision. Just know that whatever you decide, I have truly come to see you, Jaskier, not just your alternate, as a friend._

She said inside his head. Then, with a smile, she turned away.

### Making Choices

“You have to go back.”

“You have to stay.”

Jaskier’s fierce declaration overlapped with Geralt’s own.

Its vehemence startled him, as did his own determination.

But, he justified to himself, Jaskier did not deserve the burden that came with life on the Path. He should know by now how miserable it can be, and to gain the memories of the Trials would only make it worse.

“Lark,” he said with great emphasis. “I know how much you love bringing happiness to others, through your tales and songs. Tell me true, have you not greatly missed the rewards of a pleasant audience and instead of being forced to face the fear and hatred of the very people you have just helped?”

For a moment, Jaskier gaped at him, making Geralt flush.

He had grown accustomed to speaking his mind, a trait that had been beaten out of him by decades of circumstances in his other life.

But, having not been around, the Bard would not know that fact.

Then, Jaskier’s gape turned into a beaming smile, as he replied.

“Aw, Geralt, you do care!”

He then went on, “you may be right, I suppose, but your decision is far more important. I have now experienced what life on the Path truly holds, though it has not been anywhere near as long as your decades. You, my darling White Wolf, deserve something better; and it seems that this gracious djinn has granted you that chance.”

Then his face turned pensive. “As for myself, I must admit that returning to that other life is tempting; but what would life be without my friends here?”

Friends? Geralt was a bit puzzled. Did not the Bard have many such persons back in his old life? What could any relationships that he might have gained in recent months compare to the companions of a lifetime?

He glanced toward the beautiful Sorceress who had accompanied Jaskier on his hunt for the djinn and wondered.

Had the Bard fallen in love?

He could come up with no other explanation that made sense.

Still, could love make up for the burdens of life on the Path?

Deep in his heart of hearts, Geralt had to admit the truth that he would never dare confess aloud.

That if it were the right person at his side, a person like his sunshine, perhaps it could.

But Jaskier was not finished speaking.

“But you, Geralt, you were the one whose greatest Wish was to be free of the burden of being a Witcher! You have to stay,” he said, his voice insistent.

“But I…” Geralt hesitated.

How could he explain it in a way that the Bard would understand?

“If you don’t mind,” a female voice cut in.

The Sorceress, Geralt thought.

It seemed that she and Renfri were unwilling to leave them alone for long.

“The pair of you aren’t the only ones to be affected by this decision.”

“Oh, Yenn,” Jaskier said with a smile, “I didn’t think you cared about me like that!”

“Nonsense, minstrel,” Renfri replied. “Yennefer was not speaking of either of us. While we are each very fond of our equivalent friend, we do not have the right to dictate to either of you. Rather, we are speaking of those who cannot be present at this moment.”

Her eyebrow rose, as she continued, “or did you both forget that you are merely borrowing the forms of others; men whose lives will be forever changed depending on what you decide?”

Once again, Geralt felt himself flushing, and when he glanced over at Jaskier he realized that the other was similarly flustered.

He had indeed forgotten about the others.

The Viscount Geralt and Witcher Julian were the rightful owners of these bodies, after all. If either himself or Jaskier chose to remain in this world, they would be forcing their memories and souls upon those hapless men.

It further reinforced his belief that Jaskier must return to his home; and though he was a bit less enthusiastic at the thought that he must also return to life on the Path. Still, if that was what was meant to be, then he would be grateful for the brief reprieve.

But before Geralt could explain his truth to the others, the Sorceress spoke once more.

“The Great One, it seems, recognizes the reality of the situation; and as such has made a very generous offer.”

A furious gust of wind arose, forcing Geralt to shut his eyes to protect them from the swirling debris.

When he opened them again, there were two new bodies standing amongst them.

Or rather, almost standing anyway.

The new figures were translucent and shimmered as if a mirage.

Still, Geralt recognized them both.

It was himself and Jaskier, or rather Julian and the Viscount.

Renfri and Yennefer greeted both apparitions with joy, reminding Geralt of their links to the others.

“Julian,” the Sorceress began, “I don’t know how much you and Renfri’s cousin have been informed…”

But the ghostly Witcher interrupted her.

“Hush, Yenn,” he said, firmly but kindly, “we are in full awareness of what has transpired these past months, as the gracious being who granted our counterparts’ wishes did not prevent us from observing while they went about living our lives.”

Turning, he offered the Bard who had overtaken his life a kind smile, “and I at least am quite grateful for the opportunity to see my life through the eyes of another.”

Geralt’s own counterpart offered an agreeing nod, commenting with a smirk, “quite. I had no idea that my life was so much fun, not until I watched this sober bastard try to step into my shoes.”

Renfri laughed, her voice joyful. “It was a rather amusing show,” she agreed as she returned the Viscount’s smirk of her own.

“Now then, I believe that we are not needed here. Come Yenn, we must keep our magnificent new acquaintance entertained while the boys hash things out.”

“Indeed, your Grace,” the Sorceress agreed. Then, she tucked her arm into Renfri’s own, and the two women strode away once more.

“Now then,” Julian said, “shall we hash this out?”

### Julian and the Viscount

When his and Geralt’s alternates, the Witcher and the Nobleman, appeared, Jaskier had to bite back a squeal of delight.

After walking in the literal boots of his Witcher counterpart for these past months, hearing stories from both Yennefer and more recently Geralt’s Queen, he had been dying to learn the truth of the man.

From Yennefer’s tales, he knew that Julian was a vastly different type of Witcher than his beloved Geralt, but what exactly did that mean? What would a version of himself, one whose upbringing and early life differed so drastically from his own, be like?

Then there was this mysterious nobleman who wore his love’s face.

What would a version of Geralt who lacked the burden of the Path be like? And what could he, by his words and actions, teach him about the stubborn warrior who had captured Jaskier’s heart?

Finding out that Julian had been watching in the background as Jaskier had stumbled around, figuring out what life on the Path was like, made the Bard’s desire to converse with his alternate increase.

What did the Witcher think of his attempts at living up to the other’s reputation?

Was he impressed, or, as deep down Jaskier feared, was he disappointed in the interloper’s efforts?

But before he could say anything, it was the specters who acted.

After greeting their friends, the pair firmly but politely asked them to leave.

With the Sorceress and Queen gone, the time had come for them to talk.

“Julian,” Jaskier began, “I’m so sorry about the scars-”

“Nonsense, they’re nothing new. You’ve seen the multitude that this body already carried, even before you were unceremoniously dropped into it. If anything, I’m impressed that you managed to keep yourself relatively whole. All in all, you have done a much better job than most Witchers during their first months out on the Path.”

Jaskier preened, appreciating the compliment.

Across from him, Geralt let out a hum, one which Jaskier knew meant agreement.

“But to step into your shoes, it was an honor to maintain your legacy…” Jaskier continued.

“A better one than my own, filled with grief and regret as it has been,” Geralt added.

Jaskier longed to comfort his Witcher; to reassure him that he had nothing of which to be ashamed. Just because Julian had managed to save Renfri when Geralt himself had not did not mean that his White Wolf was a failure.

But before Jaskier could make the attempt, someone else interjected.

“As if,” the noble Viscount said, with a derisive snort. “Don’t be fooled, my alternate, by the stories that you’ve heard. Sure, Julian here has chosen a different Path, but that doesn’t mean it was the wiser one. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for my Queen’s sake that he chose to intervene that day in Blaviken, but that doesn’t mean that his actions didn’t have consequences.”

The Viscount crossed his spectral arms as his counterpart shifted guiltily.

“Tell me, Jaskier and Geralt, in all of the months since you arrived in our world, what have you heard about other Witchers out there in the continent?”

At first, Jaskier was a bit puzzled by the question.

_What did the other Witchers have to do with anything?_

But then he started thinking.

Back in their own world, he had had several brief encounters with Witchers besides Geralt, especially once ‘Toss a Coin’ gained prominence.

While every Witcher that he had met was distinctly different, there was no one who drew his attention quite like the White Wolf, with that odd combination of humility and nobility that he hid so well.

However, once he had found himself suddenly filling a Witcher’s shoes, those rare encounters had become non-existent.

He couldn’t remember even hearing a rumor of one of his fellow warriors passing nearby, not in all his months in this world. It seemed that Geralt’s experience had been similar, as his frown turned confused.

The Viscount’s face took on a blend of sorrow and triumph.

“Precisely,” he said. “Thanks to ‘the Queenmaker’ over here, the general opinion of their breed went from ‘monstrous but useful’ to ‘unpredictable weapons’, especially amongst the Brotherhood of Sorcerers and the noble houses. If one Witcher was willing to overthrow a seated ruler or manipulate the order of succession, then any of them could make the same choice. Across the continent, Witchers began to be hunted, as Kings and nobles alike sought to use them to fight in their wars. And when the Witcher refused, well…”

Jaskier knew enough about the world to be able to fill in the gaps, and from the look on his love’s face, Geralt could do the same.

“But…” Jaskier said quietly, “why didn’t I…?”

“Where did Yenn direct you to on your journeys?” Julian asked him, his voice subdued. “Large cities, or the back roads?”

Then he added, “and my reputation worked to your advantage there as well. Most of the nobles know better than to go after the Monstrous Minstrel, after all.”

For a moment, all four men fell silent, the tragedy a sobering note amid an otherwise friendly encounter.

“So,” Jaskier finally said, “should we get back to our discussion of the matter at hand?”

“Please.” “Yes.” “Hm.”

The others agreed, and the conversation continued. But it seemed that the Viscount’s revelation had had an impact on Geralt’s thoughts.

Now, he was apparently even more certain that Jaskier had to return to their original world.

Not only that; but now he spoke of his own return to that place as well.

Jaskier selfishly admitted to himself that he was grateful for the change. He had been willing to stay here if that was the price to remain with Geralt, but the thought of forever giving up his life as a wandering Bard was a painful one.

After a bit more discussion, the quartet reached a final decision. Geralt and Jaskier would return home, back to their ordinary lives, leaving Julian and the Viscount to resume their previous existence. In the meantime, the quartet took the unusual situation as a chance to connect, swapping stories about each other’s pasts.

Of course, it wasn’t long before they were interrupted once more.

“Geralt, Jaskier, Julian… and Geralt. I am sorry, but I’m afraid that we have to break up your little discussion,” Queen Renfri said as she stepped forward, with Yennefer standing at her side.

Despite their proximity, the queen was forced to raise her voice a bit to be heard above the increasing noise of the wind. The gusts had begun to pick up and swirl around them, much like it had when the djinn had first approached.

“It seems that our time is up. This Gracious One,” Yennefer added, with a gesture towards the whirlwind of the waiting djinn, “informs us that the window of opportunity for them to act is rapidly drawing to a close.”

“I see,” Jaskier replied while from his place beside him, Geralt hummed his own acknowledgment.

“Well,” Queen Renfri asked, a tad impatiently. “What have you decided?”

“We are all in agreement,” Jaskier replied, speaking for the group. “Our world needs us, and it just doesn’t feel right for us to stay, especially not at the cost of your friends. For, no matter how you look at it, the blend comes with a cost. We would not be the same people as we were before, any of us, and your Geralt and Julian deserve the right to return to their lives.”

The looks on both women’s faces were sad but understanding.

“In that case,” Yennefer was the first one to speak, “the Powerful One says that it is time.”

Stepping forward, she pulled Jaskier into a tight hug. As she did so, she added, “but know that even if we are never to see each other again, that I consider you my friend.”

Then, lowering her voice, she added, for his ears only, “and I am sure that my counterpart, whoever she may be, could be the same. Promise me, Jaskier, that you will seek her out, for my sake if nothing else.”

“I promise,” Jaskier agreed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Geralt and Renfri conducting a similar exchange, though the tone of Renfri’s words was quite different from the Sorceress’.

After all, her counterpart’s fate was already known.

Instead, Jaskier’s Witcher ears picked up her fierce whisper to Geralt that he must not let himself again become bogged down by regret over her counterpart’s death.

“For that is not the legacy that Renfri the Shrike would want,” she stated flatly.

When Yenn and the Queen swapped places, she added to Jaskier, “and if you wouldn’t mind, Bard, I have a favor to ask of you as well.”

“Oh?”

“Grant my Geralt some heart’s ease, and my other self some retribution. Spread the true story of Blaviken and the Princess of the Black Sun far and wide; make Stregobor regret as he never has in all of his long life.”

“It would be my honor, your Grace,” Jaskier agreed easily, offering her a proper Court Bow with all the flourishes.

Distracted by Renfri’s request, he had missed whatever Yenn had told Geralt.

It must have been something good, given the red that bled across the White Wolf’s cheeks. Or maybe it was the pat on the ass that the shameless Sorceress had offered to his beloved.

With that, the women stepped back, even as the whirlwind approached.

Jaskier couldn’t help himself, he reached for Geralt’s hand, wanting the moment of comfort before the magic hit. To his surprise, the other man didn’t shake it off. Instead, he accepted the other’s hand, squeezing it tight.

The whirlwind overtook them, and as Jaskier’s vision faded, his mind finally managed to hear the voice of the djinn.

“Wish undone,” it said, and Jaskier felt it in his bones. Just for a moment, he thought that he caught a glimpse of Julian the Witcher rushing past him, on his way back to his own body, before the world faded to black.


	4. Chapter 4

## Epilogue

“I cannot believe that I let you talk me into this,” Geralt hissed into Jaskier’s ear.

Then he stalked forward, into the ballroom, an air of disgruntled dignity flowing in his wake.

From where he stood behind him, Jaskier couldn’t help but leer at the pretty picture that the Witcher in finery offered, especially his ass in those tight velvet trousers.

He was very much looking forward to peeling them off later after the banquet was over and they had returned to their rooms for the evening. In the meantime, Jaskier had work to do.

Swinging the lute that hung at his side forward, he strummed a martial note.

“You just cannot help yourself, can you Bard?”

A female voice whispered into his ear, even as Yennefer of Vengerburg strode forward, her amethyst eyes gleaming.

Dressed in similar finery, appropriate given that she was the source of the elaborate attire that all three wore this evening, the Sorceress offered him an appreciative once over of her own before she tucked her arm into the crook of his arm.

“Now then, what do you say we go out and wow the crowd,” she added. “After all, we wouldn’t want our dear White Wolf to grab all of the attention, now would we?”

Using her eyes, she gestured towards where a cluster of ladies was eyeing an oblivious Geralt, talking to an older gentleman with salt and pepper locks, all with the same lustful gleam that Jaskier himself had just offered his beloved.

“Quite right, my beauty,” he agreed.

This time, when Geralt and Jaskier had awoken from the djinn’s magic they found that the immortal being had indeed kept its side of the bargain.

They were back in their own bodies, lying side-by-side on that same riverbank, the place where Geralt had ‘just’ fished out the djinn’s bottle.

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he sat up and began to pat down his body, wanting to check that everything was back in the right place, “that was quite the adventure, wasn’t it?”

He turned to where Geralt was lying, surprised that the other hadn’t yet moved. The Witcher was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed.

“Geralt!” he cried.

With a wince, the other man’s eyes opened, ever so slightly.

“Quiet,” he begged, and Jaskier winced.

Right, Geralt was trying to adjust back to having a Witcher’s sensitivity once again. He had almost forgotten how much of a pain that had been, and to do it in the bright light of midday must be even worse.

Shifting his position, he moved his body until its shadow blocked the sun from Geralt’s sensitive eyes.

If, at the same time, it brought him closer to his love, well that was an extra perk.

Reaching out, Jaskier ran a soothing hand through the Witcher’s tangled white locks. After the oddity that had been seeing the other with dark hair, he had to admit that he appreciated the restoration of the other’s normal appearance.

Not that his appearance really mattered, anyway. No, it was his heart that Jaskier had fallen in love with, all of those years ago.

As he gazed down at Geralt’s face, Jaskier realized that it wasn’t just the restoration of his mutations that made the Witcher appear different.

This version of his love was physically exhausted.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly. “I had forgotten.”

“What?” Geralt grumbled.

“Why you chose to go out and search for the djinn in the first place? You look… worn.”

Jaskier’s words were enough to nudge the other into action. In response, Geralt finally opened his eyes. Set against the dark circles that surrounded them, the golden orbs gleamed.

“Hm,” he said, his voice nonchalant, even as he propped himself up onto his elbows.

Jaskier knew that tone.

That tone meant that Geralt was trying to cover up something.

Well, that was alright.

Jaskier had no intention of confronting him, not right now.

Instead, he continued to speak.

“I know that your brain thinks that you are well-rested, but really Geralt, your body didn’t get the same break. I have no doubt that it is utterly exhausted. That being said, what do you think? Are you up to mounting Roach and heading for the nearest village? Or should I plan on us camping here for the night, just so that you can sleep?”

Reluctantly removing his hand from Geralt’s hair, Jaskier was about to push himself up and off the ground, when, suddenly, the Witcher pounced.

Moving with startling rapidity, Geralt pulled Jaskier down and then rolled them both until he was the one looking down at the other. Leaning forward, he caught Jaskier’s mouth, dropped open in shock, in an unexpected kiss.

By the time that Jaskier’s brain had rebooted enough to reciprocate, the Witcher had already begun to pull away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, with a hint of a growl.

Huh, did I pick that up from Julian’s Witcher instincts, Jaskier thought absently, even as he surged upwards.

And that second kiss? It was complete and utter bliss.

Jaskier and Geralt spent the next few hours making out, cuddling and generally taking the opportunity to catch each other up on the little things that they both had experienced in that other world.

At one point, Jaskier had admitted that he’d fallen in love with Geralt that first day with Filavandrel, to which Geralt had asked plaintively, “but how?”

“You were just so noble, Geralt. Willing to help others, with no consideration for your own well-being,” Jaskier replied.

For Geralt, his love for the Bard had been a much slower thing to develop. He had only begun to realize the true depth of his affection for the other during their time in that other world. Something about the experience had opened his eyes in a way that nothing else could manage.

Still, he had never dreamed that the Bard might reciprocate, not until Yennefer had whispered it to him in that last moment before the djinn acted.

“So that was why you were blushing, huh?” Jaskier teased, “the thought of my loving you?”

“Well, that, and her frank appreciation of both our… assets,” Geralt admitted. “She expressed a wish to be in the middle.”

“Oh, Yenn,” Jaskier said with a giggle.

That was so like her.

They did end up camping there on the riverbank, as Geralt’s exhaustion finally overwhelmed the excitement of the afternoon, and he dropped into a deep slumber just as the sun began to set.

Using the skills that he’d honed during months on the Path, Jaskier took advantage of the Witcher’s nap to set up a neat camp, giving Roach a proper grooming and catching fish for dinner.

It also gave him a chance to fully process what had just happened.

As he worked, Jaskier often caught himself humming a bit of a tune or letting his lips spread in a joyful grin.

Geralt loved him.

The thought kept him awake long into the night, keeping watch over his slumbering beloved.

The next day the pair headed down the road and into the nearby town of Rinde.

Geralt was ready to re-acclimate himself to the Path.

Jaskier, on the other hand, needed certain all-important luxuries.

He had a Witcher to seduce, after all, and he wanted their first time together to be perfect.

But, as it turned out, Rinde offered up its own surprise for the pair of former dimension travelers.

For it just so happened that this rural hamlet had as its most prominent citizen a certain violet-eyed Sorceress.

When Yennefer of Vengerburg spotted the residual of the djinn’s workings on their bodies, she immediately tried to work her wiles upon them.

Thankfully, between Geralt’s Witcher immunity to her spells and Jaskier’s knowledge of her tricks, they managed to resist her quite successfully.

Instead, they offered her an unexpected, on her part anyway, a hand of friendship. It was this new friendship that had led them to the evening’s entertainment.

Yennefer had heard rumors of the upcoming betrothal feast for the Princess Pavetta of Cindra and had thought that would make for an excellent opportunity to help spread Jaskier’s newest masterpiece, the Tragedy of the Black Sun Princess.

With Queen Calanthe’s legendary dislike of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers and the abundance of noblemen present to vie for the Princess’ hand, the ball would provide the perfect opportunity to bring Stregobor’s villainy into the public eye.

Or so they had thought.

But Destiny, it seemed, had another idea in mind for that evening.

“In that case, I claim the Law of Surprise. Grant unto me that which you have, but do not know,” Geralt announced before the entire assembly gathered there in the ballroom of Queen Calanthe, breathing heavily as he recovered from the impact of the Princess’s scream.

From her spot near the dais, Yennefer glanced over at Jaskier. With an amused smile, she rolled her eyes at him.

For his own part, Jaskier couldn’t help but grin.

His love was just that ridiculous.

But then, as the Princess gagged and began to projectile vomit, he blanched.

“Well, fuck,” Jaskier murmured quietly as his eyes followed the sound.

Yenn’s amused smirk turned into a grin.

_This should be exciting!_

## Cast List

**Author's Note:**

> I am only familiar with the version of these characters as developed in the Netflix show, along with what little I've managed to glean from other people's writing.  
> 


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